


Confetti

by 9_of_Clubs



Series: Hand in Unlovable Hand [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cruelty, Destruction, M/M, Rage, Will lets off some steam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:43:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1902897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will finally lets out that scream, breaking and shattering.<br/>--<br/>Born of conversations with the lovely <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine">Drinkbloodlikewine</a>. A very vicious portrayal of what Hannibal and Will's life together might be like. In a series, but stands alone, somewhat earlier than the other parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confetti

On the third night, when he feels the rage fill him, he lets it come. There’s been a scream perched under his throat for years now and he’s pushed it back and pushed it away, but now, tonight, the memories echoing too strongly, and Hannibal sitting free in his goddamn, pristine, room make him dizzy. If he never stops, he never stops.

The papers go first, they go flying off of the desk and Hannibal looks at him, pencil still in hand, stunned for a moment, before that’s grabbed away and thrown too, and he growls. Will ignores him, he doesn’t care, he’s not listening, it doesn’t matter that they just finished putting everything in place, it doesn’t matter to him, how many dollars in damage he’s about to do. Hannibal is rich, he’s rich and he’s free and so the sound of breaking china as he sends a slew of figurines off the shelf, doesn’t matter. And it makes him feel better, the damage. Not so long ago, Hannibal broke into his home, and tore his life apart. This is their home now, so he has every bit as much right, has so much more right, to rip anything he wants into pieces. He tears whatever Hannibal was writing and shoves it aside.

A statue tips over next, not broken, but it doesn’t matter, he’s already moved on to the next thing, and is he screaming? He’s not sure. There’s definitely sounds rising from around the room, twisting together and maybe Hannibal is speaking, it certainly looks like his mouth is moving, but he can’t hear anything as he picks up the silken robe lying on the bed and tears. It would be halfway comical, he thinks, if he couldn’t manage it, but the delicate fabric gives underneath his fingers, and he’s cackling.

There’s no stopping to look at Hannibal, but he’s pleased to see the other is only sitting there amidst the chaos as he passes him by, not attempting to right anything, not reaching down to pick up stray pieces or to undo the changes Will has made. There’s a strange expression on his face, and for once it’s not joy. Good, the bastard, good.

 

The books from the bookshelves end up on the floor and he’s opened up a sketchpad, ready to crumple the pages, when suddenly Hannibal is there, holding his wrist, it’s too tight, so tight it brings tears to his eyes, but he tries with the other hand anyway, only to find it snatched away as well.

“Please do not touch those.” Hannibal’s words are dark, hissed, there’s a dull red flush on his face, his eyes slits. Will laughs and sends his body weight flying forward, sends them to the floor with a hard thump.

“I don’t recall you asking when you rearranged the furniture in my rooms.” He’s straddling Hannibal, bearing down on him, his own strength enough to keep the tug of war at a stand still. “Do you think I need yours now?” They roll and tumble, and he’s still laughing, and Hannibal is vicious, and if Will isn’t careful, his head is going to end up rolling away too, but all on its own. He steers Hannibal back into a table, and the impact is enough to dislodge them, gives him time to scramble away and flip the pages open again. That Hannibal doesn’t want him to, makes him all the more determined.

The lines of pencil draw their likenesses on paper, happy, in love, close. An unbearable tenderness that hasn’t existed in ages. “Cute.” He sneers, and Hannibal watches from the floor, only breathing now, his chest heaving up and down, his lips are thin, his eyes are glittering. He doesn’t rise.

It’s not even a decision to tear the pages out and rip them again and again and again, they cut into his palms, but he ignores the sting of blood. Confetti covering the floor.

“Practice makes perfect.” His own voice is barely familiar these days, dark and taunting. “Or maybe the pieces can come together for you if you wait there long enough.” He’s walking out, the room around him a perfect storm, wreckage strewn everywhere, every last carefully placed thing broken or askew. “Why don’t you give that a try?”

He slams the door behind him for good measure.


End file.
